


the iron tongue of midnight

by akaparalian



Series: Roy/Ed Week 2016 [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7592101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Alchemy will still be there in the morning, I promise.”</p><p>“Shows what you know,” Ed mutters, but the last word catches on a yawn and he’s smiling when he twists in his chair to bury his head into Roy’s shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the iron tongue of midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Roy/Ed Week, day two! For July 26th I chose the prompt "the stroke of midnight," so, you know... have some schmoopy porn.
> 
> The title is from A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 5, Scene 1: "The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Lovers, to bed. 'Tis almost fairy time."

Roy glances at the clock, rolls his eyes, sighs. Just once -- just _once_ \-- he would like it if Edward went to bed sometime before midnight _without_ any prompting. He always gets like this when he’s deep in the bowels of researching something, and, well… if Roy’s being honest, he has no earthly idea what it is Ed’s got his mind wrapped around this time, but it’s sure doing a good job of keeping him from getting to bed on time.

Sure enough, there he is -- spine hunched over as he sits cross-legged in his desk chair, surrounded by an unholy mess of books and papers and neat half-finished transmutation circles completely at odds with the messy, scratchy notes that flood the pages around them. He doesn’t even notice Roy coming up behind him; his hair is bound back in a ponytail, and he’s fidgeting with the end of it as he reads. Roy’s heart does something completely undignified. He deigns to ignore it.

“It’s late, Fullmetal. Come to bed,” he murmurs, smirking just a little bit at the way Ed jumps in surprise as Roy wraps his arms around his shoulders. Completely oblivious. You’d think someone who spent so many of his formative years fighting for survival would have developed a better sense of awareness, but then, Roy supposes there’s always been someone watching his back, whether it was Alphonse, Roy’s men, or Roy himself. “Alchemy will still be there in the morning, I promise.”

“Shows what you know,” Ed mutters, but the last word catches on a yawn and he’s smiling when he twists in his chair to bury his head into Roy’s shoulder. 

Roy smiles, fondly exasperated. “Come to _bed_.”

“Make me,” Ed says, his tone playful but low and inviting at the same time, and. Well. Roy doesn’t have to be asked twice.

He’s in a pretty good position to nudge Ed’s head to one side and cage the flesh of his throat in a gentle bite, then follow it quickly with and open-mouthed kiss, and he doesn’t miss the way Ed shivers. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to having this; to be frank, he still doesn’t know what he did to deserve it, either. But Ed stands and shoves into him, his hands reaching up to thread into Roy’s hair and pull him down low enough to kiss, so for the moment, he’ll let it go.

They are, both of them, the kind of people who systematically decide what they want and then reach for it, and wrapped up together and entwined as those desires have become in the past few years, that kind of ironclad determination can be dangerous. Still. They’ve learned to live with it; it’s a controlled burn, or at least that’s what Roy tells himself. He kisses Edward firmly, and with the kind of familiarity that comes from a scandalous amount of practice, even as he gently tugs him to his feet and slots their bodies together in the way they’ve learned to fit.

Ed draws away just long enough to say, “Fine, you made your point, _god_ ,” faux-irritated and smirking. It’s an expression that makes something just north of Roy’s stomach light up with an incandescent, liquid heat.

Roy appreciates that, over the years, Ed’s sartorial tastes have improved somewhat, because his electing to wear a tie gives Roy an _excellent_ means of tugging him purposefully down the hall.

He doesn’t make it easy, of course; he sidetracks Roy at multiple points between the study and the bedroom with little flurries of lips and teeth and wandering hands, and a smoldering look here or there for spice. Not that Roy’s complaining. And, after all, they do _eventually_ make it, tumbling through the door and towards the bed like a pair of horny teenagers, hands already sneaking up and under one another’s clothes as though they don’t live together, as though they can’t do this _whenever they want_.

Ed nimbly grapples for the upper hand, his fingers grazing Roy’s sides as his knees slot into place on either side of his hips. Edward has never been one for _gentle_ kisses, precisely; instead, he seems to pour every ounce of emotion and affection and _want_ into every one, so much so that Roy sometimes wonders how he has anything left. But that’s Ed: bottomless and suffuse with raw emotion, with raw power. It still makes him shiver.

A number of other things are presently making him shiver, too, if he’s being honest. Like the brush of cool air on his skin where Ed’s impatiently wrangling his shirt, or the way Ed’s teeth graze his bottom lip in the same instant, the two sensations a study in contrasts.

And then there’s the way Edward just keeps making _noises_. For now, mostly words, though a glorious breadth of experience tells Roy that they’ll get less and less coherent as the night wears on. But for now, “Your mouth should honestly be illegal. You have the power to do that, right? You should get on it,” and, “Who the fuck decided your uniform should have so many damn _buttons,_ ” and also, “God, Roy, am I going to have to do all of this myself or are you going to _get on it_?”

“Pushy,” Roy murmurs, his own hands wandering a familiar path down Ed’s shoulders, then flirting briefly with the chiselled dip of his waist, and then ever-so-quickly smoothing over his objectively delectable ass before he relents and moves up again, undoing his tie with the ease of familiarity before moving on to his vest, and then his shirt in turn.

“You _like_ pushy,” Ed reminds him with a pointed roll of his hips, and Roy couldn’t find it in himself to disagree even if he wanted to.

Instead he sinks his fingers below the waistband of Ed’s pants, not too far and not with any particular purpose, just brushing his fingers over the skin there, teasing. Ed hums and smirks at him and brushes _his_ hands over the front of Roy’s pants in a manner that is entirely more straightforward.

“I know you’re old, but get it together, Mustang,” he snarks, even as he fiddles with the button. Roy is torn, as ever, between moaning and rolling his eyes. “We _do_ have a goal, here. Let’s go, come on.”

“One of these days,” Roy informs him, in the exact same way he has done for years now, “I am going to get you to slow _down_.” On the other hand, he _does_ lift his hips to help Ed shimmy his pants down, and it’s not exactly like he’s _complaining_ , but he would be remiss in his role if he didn’t at least mention it.

Ed doesn’t even bother actually replying, just quirks an eyebrow at him, shimmers like quicksilver down the bed, and bows his head to take Roy in his mouth all at once.

He’s so _much_. He practically radiates intensity and desire; he looks up at Roy through his eyelashes, his lips stretched wide, and Roy feels like he’s looking into the brightest part of the sun, molten and so luminous it hurts his eyes. But that’s Ed; that’s how he’s always been. Roy frees his hair from the ponytail and then threads his fingers through it very carefully, stroking but not pulling, mostly for the sake of giving himself something to hold onto.

Sometimes he’s tempted to ask where Ed learned to do these things with his tongue, but, well. He knows quite a few of the details already, and any quiet, simmering jealousy in the back of his mind is ridiculous. Edward is his, and he is Edward’s, as much as it is possible for two people to belong to each other. What matters is that the only person he _does_ those things to is Roy. And in return, Roy gets to gently tug until his mouth pops off with a filthy sound, and draw him up into his arms and then flip them until Ed is splayed beneath him, his hair spread out across the bed like a sheet of hammered gold, and undo his pants with his _teeth_.

Well. He tries to, anyway. But Ed laughs at him, honest and bright and delighted, so he still counts it as a win.

“Who are _you_ trying to impress?” Ed snorts, and Roy rolls his eyes and accepts it as his due. Ed’s teasing him, which, of course, isn’t anything new, but there’s such a deep measure of love in his voice too that it makes Roy’s head spin. That’s not exactly new, either, but it’s something he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly get used to as long as he lives. Which, with the way Edward is looking at him, may not be much longer.

He gives it another shot, with a little help from his actual hands this time, and meets with far more success. Edward Elric, he reminds himself almost drunkenly as he takes a moment to look down and stare, is naked and effervescent in his bed. As he has been for years. What Roy ever did to deserve this, he honestly doesn’t know.

“Yes, yes, I’m blisteringly attractive, can you please get a _move_ on,” Ed says, and Roy rolls his eyes and does what he’s told. He has the foresight to scramble for the pot of oil they keep by the bedside before Ed’s legs are up and over his shoulders, his hands and mouth reaching automatically for the nooks and crannies they’ve grown achingly familiar with.

He’s always had a sneaking suspicion that this -- the flat of Roy’s tongue and then the slick press of a finger, wetness and heat spreading over everything -- is Edward’s favorite part. Not that Roy’s complaining, either; Edward gives full voice to, “Holy _shit_ , Roy,” and a million other things besides. And that’s the first finger. Each one is a step farther away from coherency.

Edward isn’t nearly as gentle about Roy’s hair as Roy is about his; he grabs and _pulls_ , his fingers tightening with the rhythm of Roy’s tongue fluttering at his perineum, his balls, around the edges of him, and with the two fingers now spreading him slowly apart. He’s saying something -- there seem to still be a lot of expletives involved, so things seem to be going fine -- but Roy’s honestly lost track of what, exactly, is coming out of his mouth, instead just paying attention to the lilt and cadence of it, and the way he gasps for air and cries out wordlessly when Roy presses in _just so_.

Three fingers is a slick, tight slide downhill into Ed mostly just babbling, as far as he can tell; at this point Roy gives up on his own tongue in favor of leaning back to look at him. His eyes are squeezed shut tight and his face is flushed beautifully, and Roy spreads his fingers as wide as he can just to hear him yowl and watch as his back arches up off the bed, his hands tightening near-painfully in Roy’s hair. Four fingers is unnecessary, but _very_ enjoyable; Ed’s eyes snap open again, his pupils blown so wide there’s barely a smidge of gold around a liquid black, back-lit. 

“Roy,” he manages to gasp, “I swear to _god_ , if you don’t fuck me --”

It’s the first coherent phrase he’s managed in quite a while, and it’s not exactly a proposition Roy is keen on refusing. Almost instantly he slides back up the bed, pausing to catch Ed’s lips in a gentle kiss as he carefully lines himself up.

He’s just about to open his mouth when Ed says, in a tone that brooks no argument, “If you stop to ask if I’m ready right now, I will end your life.”

So instead Roy pushes in, shivering at the sensation and at the bone-deep sound of pleasure that bubbles out of Ed. He waits, for just a moment, lets everything sink in until his limbs seem to have weight again. And then it’s less that he moves, and more that they move together, motion flowing from one into the other and back again, the slick, rhythmic slide of it drawing the air from their lungs and rendering even Ed wordless.

Roy has never made any secret of the fact that he enjoys sex, nor that, over the course of his life, he has had a lot of very good sex. Edward was, from the very first, something entirely different. There’s an element of full-body togetherness, of _wholeness_ , that is absolutely impossible to capture outside of Ed’s presence and that hits a base, crystalline level here, when there is absolutely nothing left between them.

When Ed comes, Roy rather thinks it surprises both of them; his babbling and groaning and occaisional sharp cries of “Roy, Roy, _fuck_ ,” twist off into a guttural yell, and come is suddenly splashing onto Roy’s chest and pooling in the heaving ridges of Ed’s belly. Roy stutters to a stop, reaching out to brush a hand gently down Ed’s face, but Ed chokes out a “No, no, keep going, don’t fucking _stop_ ,” and he sounds so utterly wrecked, his voice still absolutely dripping with want, that Roy just doesn’t have it in him not to obey. 

Too much has very rarely been enough for Ed, he observes as he draws his hips forward again, the motion earning him shivers and moans instantly more intense than a few seconds ago. Ed’s eyes are screwed shut tight again, and his mouth is hanging open in a way that Roy can’t resist planting sloppy kisses on, and when Roy squeezes his upper arms mostly as a way of grounding himself he shivers like every nerve in his body has been set alight.

Roy has a little more warning before he comes; he can feel it building, gasps, “ _Edward_ ,” in the particular reverent tone he reserves for the bedroom. Ed, for once, doesn’t say anything, just runs his hands over Roy’s body and urges him on. Then, finally, orgasm washes over him and he curls around Ed to ride it out, their limbs intertwined and their breathing equally heavy as they both slowly spiral back down to earth.

It’s a relatively long time before Ed says, “All right, come on, let’s go,” and Roy somewhat reluctantly stirs himself to carefully pull out and then roll over and stand, shuffling into the bathroom to wet a warm washcloth. When he returns, Ed is sitting up in bed and accepts the washcloth wordlessly.

They’ve both more or less exhausted their stores of words -- which, when it comes to Ed, is really pretty impressive -- and they both know this routine more than well enough to do it silently. When they’ve cleaned up as much as they’re going to, Ed wordlessly sets the cloth off to the side and leans over to kiss Roy soundly before slipping under the covers. Roy turns off the lamp and then follows moments later.

In the morning, they will wake up slowly, and maybe Roy will follow Ed into the shower or maybe Ed will distract him at breakfast and make him burn the eggs, or maybe they’ll just move in one another’s orbits as they day slowly warms around them. Either way, Roy smiles at the thought as he pulls Ed towards him and slowly drifts to sleep. 


End file.
